Jack was a little grey donkey, a genuine little burro owned by the cook
of a lumber camp in northern British Columbia. He was used for odd jobs
around the men’s quarters and, when off duty, roamed about aimlessly at
his own free will. He was old, tame as a dog and very wise.
We hired him one day to carry our grub and blankets on a fishing
expedition. We had no fixed place to go. We simply cut across country
through bush and hills, stopping to fish at every likely stream, camping
when we felt like it. Jack behaved perfectly for three days. He carried
his little load quietly and steered his way through any kind of ground
according to our instructions, which we telegraphed to him from behind
with a tap of the hand or an occasional shove.
On the third day at sundown, we pitched our tent on an old camping
ground and found there two large cans of tomatoes which someone had left
behind. The next morning, we loaded the little burro and placed the two
cans on the top of his pack. Jack gave a grunt and promptly lay down.
Nothing would induce him to rise until one of us thought of taking the
two cans off. Then he proceeded on his way as if nothing had happened.
For at least two hours we tried to fool him with those two tomato
tins—but failed utterly. Each time we laid them on his pack, ever so
gently from behind, he would stop dead and lie down again. Finally we
had to give it up and throw the two cans away.
When the time came to return to the lumber camp, we were not certain of
our way. In fact, we had only had a very hazy idea of our direction as
we had been travelling in a round about sort of way in a very hilly
country thickly covered with large trees. We decided to put our faith in
Jack. He seemed to understand that we were going home. He took us back,
foot by foot, exactly the same way we had come. His memory was uncanny.
All the unnecessary little detours we had made, around a bush or a rock
on our way up, he scrupulously made again on the way down. He never
changed his pace once. He just jogged along with his head down and his
eyes half closed. But nothing would make him step out of what he thought
was the proper trail.
Two miles from camp, when we could already see the tents in the valley,
we tried to make him take a short cut. He absolutely refused and showed
the usual signs of lying down. He had been in charge all the way back
and intended remaining so until we arrived.
[Illustration: An burro on the trail]